


punch me, please (for falling for u)

by cloudburst



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, But also not, F/F, basically crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My <em>nonexistent</em> mental socialization is representative of the soul's greatest desires—90% Mikasa, 11% hatred for my Calculus II course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	punch me, please (for falling for u)

**Author's Note:**

> Jay Moriarity is a surfer just so ya know. 
> 
> also, basically this is crack. basically. crack with plot. I dunno, my first person narrative is shit, lmao. 
> 
> Sasha is basically a genius and I am in love.

If you were to attempt to count the hairs on her head—sifting through with grubby fingers and nothing short of maniacal intent—you'd come back with _NO NUMBERS._

I mean, you'd also receive a punch in the face. But that's honestly beside the actual point that's supposed to be made here. The notion of counting her hair is so ridiculously laughable due to a single, proven fact that's seen as an established campus rule—and that rule is, well—it's that this girl (Mikasa) is a stone cold bitch. 

Marble. Frozen. But _damn,_ timeless. 

In all prior mentions of insurmountable truth, there is one to be held self evident: Mikasa _goddamn_ Ackerman is the hottest shit to ever grace this earth with her presence. She's like, 'stub your toe and somehow fall off the precipice of deadening pain into the fiery depths of hell' hot. 

Muy caliente. 

And I, in comparison, find myself to be a humble peasant in the presence of an absolute goddess. Besides the act of being a blatant homosexual, I've found I possess great skill in the art of _'drooling over Sina U's female dance captain.'_ After all, Connie did say in high school that I was most likely to have my face turned inside out.

I'd let her kick (or punch) me in the facial region any day. 

And the act of tweeting '#masochist4life lol' is simply too much, so obviously I would have to find myself in a general, solitary reflection on how her fist would most likely put any man, including the gargantuan that is Brock Lesnar to shame. 

So yes, the point of all this:

Summaries of all convolution are generally appreciated, I find. 

Therefore I present my mind's autonomous rambling as a collective, monotonous whole: _'if one were attempting to count the innumerable strands of dark hair atop her head, they'd most likely end up with a clenched fist to their face—a punch sounding louder than the big bang and would, quite frankly, make Brock Lesnar cry actual tears of defeat and humiliation. That's not to say I'd never try quantifying such a thing, but a different setting would be preferred—AKA, not the school courtyard. Maybe my living room? Her living room? Brock Lesnar's living room? When it comes to Mikasa, I'm not picky.'_

And at this point my twitter feed would read: 'stop white people (or just me) 2k15.' That is, if I weren't far too lazy to actually type that and fear the rejection of absolutely zero favorites or retweets as it were. I'm not entirely about that social media life. 

My _nonexistent_ mental socialization is representative of the soul's greatest desires—90% Mikasa, 11% hatred for my Calculus II course. And believe me, I can perform addition. Also known as, the inaccuracy was just to emphasize the lady boner for my lady, and the contempt for math I've begun to feel in my heart's very core. 

I hope it's not medical. Or serious. 

Picture this. _'@biiitchbraus: lmao @ my life'_

I've got the jokes of a twelve year old and the body of a slightly (hella) late bloomed nineteen year old. 

At least I'm not trying to pass off a pork chop as filet mignon. But that is a story for another day. Also one I'm not as willing to go into, but hey. Persistence is golden. Or is that silence? No one's getting much of that from me. 

And ah—shit. 

"Ms. Braus."

_**Come at me, bro.** _

On second thought, please don't. 

"Hm, yeah?"

"What was I just speaking about?"

Then, of course, cue my intense rambling about the methodology of partial fraction decomposition. (Come on, teach—you expect me to pay attention during review from like, precalculus?) "...So that's why the A over the x squared is actually A times x plus B. Because it's nonlinear? Yeah." 

And follow my explanation up with a slightly agape jaw, and a _'wham, bam, thank you ma'am!'_ This is Calculus II, not precalc. I don't need this shit. 

"That's—" Yeah, teach. Flounder. "That's correct." 

And I'm biting the urge to say: 'I know, lmao.' But the main problem with that is not any amount of disrespect involved, but the lack of a pragmatic process to go about the correct pronunciation of 'lmao.' 

Ell-em-é-ooo?

La-may-o? 

Mayonnaise. 

Gross.

* * *

Water fountains are cool. Sitting on the edge of the large, marble set one in the middle of Sina U's campus is even cooler. Of course, _ALL_ of this is made even better when Mikasa _goddamn_ Ackerman (the emphasis is necessary, always) sits beside you.

And by beside, I mean like, three feet away. 

Dare to dream, home slice. That's what my dad always told me. I am still very inspired. 

"So, Sash?"

"Mmm?"

"I heard you totally sassed the teacher today in Calc 2." 

_'@biiitchbraus: FUUUUUUCK._

In the process of punching Connie's shoulder, I find the correct response. "It wasn't really sass. He just asked me a question that was like, mind-blowingly stupid!" 

"So you _sassed_ him." And in response his eyes have a certain knowing gleam to them—if eyes can do that. The point is, he knows I was probably disrespectful without meaning to be, and have made a lifelong enemy of my lovely, lovely Calculus II professor. 

I want to punch him (Con-man) in the face.

Fuck you, Connie Boy. 

But this must be the day that the true messiah appeared on earth—or the day that Jesus (or god, maybe?) finally decided he loves everyone, including _my_ atheist ass. Because that was a legitimate giggle coming from my left.

Remember who's over there? 

And Connie giggles sometimes. Of course. But he's to the other, unimportant in the moment direction. 

My head snaps up faster than _any_ of the rubber bands he insists on pelting me with back at our shared apartment. 

What a dickhead. 

But then Mikasa is meeting my eye with a small smile on her face and— HOLY SHIT. Abort mission, actually. ABORT the GODDAMN MISSION. 

Just let me explain, for a moment. 

Have you ever just looked at someone and thought, 'wow, they're really hot. holy shit.' But then, after that, every time you steal a glance it becomes a mess of, 'wow they're really cute,' and 'wow I'd like to tickle you to see how hard you'd laugh but also because I wanna hear your atrocious snorting pig laughter.' 

And so my crush on Mikasa Ackerman was born. 

Of course, talking sometimes, when completely necessary (like that one lab in Biology) is never the prime development for a relationship. Therefore, we remain in that 'are we, or are we not friends?' stage that feels so awkward to my stupid, itching hands. Ah, god. 

Dear god, dear lord, dear vague muscular man with a beard or a sword. 

Reciting Bo Burnham has never felt so good.

Anyways, continuing on. 

TOO LATE, to give up on this endeavor. Must follow through. And at this point my nonexistent twitter feed would be composed of the yellow heart emoji because, yeah. I'm really digging the yellow one's vibe at this time in my life, is all. 

And Mikasa is looking at me, hair pulled back in the cutest, sloppiest, most dancer-esque without actually being a ballet bun, bun that I've ever seen. 

Her eyes are like this charcoal grey color, and they're probably the greatest thing ever. 

_'@biiitchbraus: help me i've fallen in love and i can't get up'_

And holy shit, her smile. Her giggle???

10000000/10. Fight me. 

"I'm sorry for listening to your conversation but, like—oh my god."

"You're fine, it's fine. Don't apologize for—" 

"It's just, I can so see you doing that. You corrected our Biology professor enough where I feel like this is a common thing—"

"I mean our professor had no idea what she was talking about sometimes! It was ridiculous and I couldn't stand for and listen to the stupid shit spewing from her—" 

" _Oh my god,_ you're awful but in such a good way. I'm going to _die,_ Sasha. What the—"

"Don't die, dear _god_ that'd be _awful_ —"

"Don't worry. Don't worry. I won't die, just for you Sash." And a laugh bubbles up past her lips, flowing over the cracks. 

Damn. 

And she's so gorgeous, _holy shit._

_'@biiitchbraus: #steelingmyresolve #youcandothisSash'_

"We should like, hang out next Friday or something. Since we don't have Bio together anymore."

The heavens opened up.

"Sure. That sounds like it could be fun." 

And then, a few minutes later, she's walking away (hate 2 see her leave but lov 2 watch her go), and Connie is patting me on the back in excitement. 

"Well someone has, _kind of a date,_ next Friday." 

"Nah. Shut up, Con."

* * *

Have you ever had a singularly defining moment in your life? —one that takes you from zero to hero in like, ten seconds? Or possibly you went the other way around. Hero to zero? Is that even a thing?

The point is, that next Friday found me couch-ridden with a form of _'oh my god Mikasa will be in this apartment today with me'_ existential angst. 

Like am I even real? Is Mikasa even real? She can't be. 

_'@biiitchbraus: not possible #perfect #theonlygirl4me'_

To further drive home that particular point, she calls me at approximately 5:43 in order to tell me she should be showing up to the apartment around 6:00. 

I would have preferred waiting in the deafening silence of my otherwise screaming mind—especially compared to _this._

Stressing about all your affections coming to visit? No big deal! Except. 

Except for when it is. And that is now. 

And now is, like I said, a defining moment in my college-nerd ridden mind. 

Fun stuff!

So, approximately fifteen minutes are spent attempting to straighten up the un-straightenable—like describing the ineffable with a two word vocabulary. And it is clear that I am maturing—choosing not to make the very obvious gay joke that presented itself. Maybe Mikasa appreciates a mature woman? If not, the opportunity has been wasted for nothing. And that would be unfair to me. 

Cruel, and unusual. 

But she gives me those weird butterfly things—ties my stomach in knots, makes it hard to breathe. (Not literally of course. I don't want to die.) It's all of the stereotypical teen movie romance signs, and I'm helpless. It's actually sort of awful. 

Well, we've got all of the clichés so far—except vampires. Make Mikasa have a thirst for my blood or some shit, and we're there. She could quote Edward Cullen, and I could slap her in the face. Maybe once I had figured out the convoluted puzzle leading me to believe that the girl I was in love with is a vampire, I could go home, sit down, and simply google _'vampire.'_ Hopefully no weird porn would show up. I am definitely not a fan. 

Spending too long thinking about useless information has always been my greatest affinity. 

Because Mikasa is knocking on my apartment door. 

And I'm _dying_.

Already.

Pulling the door open takes something of a feigned Herculean effort. The excitement and dread make a lovely combination in the hollow cesspool of shit that is my chest. 

"Hey Mikasa, how are—"

"Hi Sash, what's—"

"We're both talking this is _not_ working—"

"Well I'll stop—"

"No, you go because—"

"It's your apartment—"

"You're my _guest_ —"

A pause. And it's punctuated by Connie's voice in Jean's apartment—the next one over, as his head pokes out the door. 

"Get a room, you guys. Or more specifically an apartment. Considering I'm not allowed in mine for the rest of the night."

And the door closes.

I hate him. So much. Hulk smash? Smash. 

La-may-o, it is. 

I close the door behind Mikasa, and it's like I've had an epiphany when she kinda half-smiles, half trips as she walks through the entryway. (Graceful away from the dance studio, she is not.) This is it, for me—the night I tell this girl what I think of her, how I feel.

It's terrifying, and I am a nerdlord—but I can actually stand to ask her what movie she'd like me to put on before grabbing pre-made (because I am one prepared bitch) snacks from the kitchen. It's not a surprise when she asks me to put on Chasing Mavericks. Jay Moriarity was totally bomber and I can get behind that fact. 

I put the food on my coffee table in relative silence as the movie begins—and like every time I watch it, I get attached. (Nerdlord, remember?) Throw the fact that it's based on this _real_ dude into the equation and you've got some liquid pouring from my eyes at the end. 

It obviously isn't tears. I'm not admitting to that. 

But when her hand trails along my arm, right before placing itself over my hand—I'd admit to anything in _that_ moment. 

Maybe if she'd move a little closer, smile a little wider. 

And she does—sitting on top of her legs, dimple by her chin, her other hand resting on my shoulder, arm draped around my side. 

Her voice is a whisper. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

—a little _closer._

"My love for Jay Moriarity?"

—and again she's laughing, and I'm _dying,_ c'mon a little _closer._

It's barely audible, but it's there. _"Yeah."_

I couldn't tell who started it—didn't really matter. All I know is, that in that moment, I was kissing Mikasa _goddamn_ Ackerman. 

And she's pulling away—can't feel my face and that's _awesome_ , because I can't tell how _stupid_ my grin is. But she's laughing, and it's this atrocious, snorting noise I've always wanted to hear again—not the feigned, restrained, and quite frankly not as adorable: 'That was so funny, hahaha.' 

She's saying, "We should do this more often."

And I'm nodding.

Because yeah, I agree.

**Author's Note:**

> This was awful and I am srry. How do you write anything besides abstract bullshit, I will never know.


End file.
